I am the meat and the flower of sex. I am the meat and the flower of sex.

I am the meat and the flower of sex and if you find a way to hurt me I'll find a way to hurt you too. I am the meat and the flower of sex.

I am the lap and warm bosom of sex. I am the lap and warm bosom of sex. I am the lap and warm bosom of sex. If you hurry on past me I'll hurry past you.

I am the back thigh and rump skin of sex. I am the back thigh and rump skin of sex. If you try to whang into me I'll try to crang into you because I am the back thigh and rump skin of sex.

I am that talk straight milky white stuff in this back rib bone of this tall and keen Egyptian negro.

I am the hard solid spot on the ring mat where Joe Louis let his toe dance when his fist whipped out to fight and to kill out the racey hates of my sick ones to your south, to your north, to you east and back down west.

I am the meat and the flower of sex.

Most buildings you see pull their blinds down to try to keep me from coming in. I rip down ignorant bricks stacks as fast as shaky fear can line them up and square them raise them and build them. Your design and your pattern is my private property. Your grass and garden is where I toss my hat.

I lick ice cream off of my fingers and I suck on my own tongue for my freest pleasures and I hold up every comic funny paper book on earth and I suck while my eye reads the funny on every tongue to the southland, to my drouthland, to my dance land, to my heavy and my hurt hand and my hurt land.

I am the meat and the flower of sex.

I am the lap and warm bosom of sex. I am the breast and the swung leaf of sex. I am the back thigh and rump skin of sex. This is my union love juice.